


The Death of the Earl

by QueenyMidas



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Acting, Death, F/F, F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M, POV Second Person, Wakes & Funerals, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:59:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3456575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenyMidas/pseuds/QueenyMidas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You and your wife have been invited to a wake for a prominent businessman and noble. You didn't know the man well, but it's still sad to see someone so prominent and young die so soon. (No character death involved!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Death of the Earl

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about this one for a long while! I'm very excited to try writing in second-person since it's rarely done in fic. Remember, there's no character death in this ;)! Hope you enjoy.

**The Death of the Earl**

   Your business never led you into interactions with the Phantomhive family–not even when they were still a family.

  It was just a week after your fifteenth birthday when the news came to you through letter (as you had been on holiday to celebrate, of course), that the Phantomhive Manor had burnt to the ground, taking the nobles and their little son with it.

   When, in two months’ time, that son wound up alive, you couldn't help but feel invested in the story. So you watched him from afar, marveling at his strength in the face of losing everything.

   He ran his dead father's company at ten, and you inherited the family business at eighteen as planned. Your father is still kicking, coming over every weekend or so to visit with his grandchildren. They love their Grandpa dearly, and he insisted on being the one to teach the boys how to shoot.

   Your daughter was furious when informed that it was not necessary for a lady to learn to shoot by her dear old Grandpa, but you gave into her request.

   Private lessons and the utmost secrecy around your parents would be your lot–they would never approve of such liberal thinking.

   They will most likely die before your daughter is married, though, so you figure they will never have to know.

   When you received the cordial invitation to attend the final viewing of Ciel Phantomhive, you had never before dreamed of your parents outliving him. Sure, you never once had spoken to the man, but you'd seen him from afar and admired his work. There was, after all, an awful lot to admire.

   Phantomhive raised wages for his workers beyond any other company would dream of doing and saw an increase in productivity and sales alike. He expanded his father's toy company to include food, a shoe line, and plenty of educational material. He was renowned and respected by all for these successes, so it made sense that his wake would involve everyone of import in London. He was the Queen's Watch Dog on top of all of that, too.

   Your carriage pulls up to the Cathedral and you stop daydreaming about what Ciel Phantomhive could have done if he was only allowed to live longer. His poor health had always been a concern, but to take him at twenty-five was cruel. He hadn’t even produced an heir and Funtom was forced to pick a new CEO from within the company.

   The papers said it had been some attack of the lungs that brought Ciel Phantomhive down, and that he dropped into a coma from which he could not recover.

   You help your wife down from the carriage, careful to make sure her skirts don't get caught up in the wheels. The last time that happened was the worst Christmas of your life.

   "It's so bright," Mary sighs. "Hardly fitting for a funeral." And it's true. It's positively humid out with the sun coming to rear its face for all the mourners to see. Ladies and gentlemen alike are sweating in their black clothing and trying not to show it.

   “Yes,” you agree, now in the presence of other nobles. You nod in recognition at these business magnates, sure to not seem too happy to see them on such a dower occasion. You heard that the Queen already paid her respects in an earlier service, so at least there isn’t a chance of committing a faux pas in front of Her Majesty.

   Mary slips your arm through hers and pulls out a black fan so she can keep herself cool. You, in your many-layered suit, are a lost cause.

   “Welcome,” an American says as he hands you a program. You nod to him, too, seeing that he’s clearly Phantomhive staff. They had become renowned in their own sense.

   Nobody inspired loyalty quite like Ciel could—or at least that’s what you have heard. As your work in printing presses picked up a few years ago, you were invited to some extravagant parties where the late Earl and his servants were on everyone’s lips.

   Once, when drunk, Mary had told you of a very salacious rumor about the Earl and his head butler. You didn’t believe a word of it, of course, and dismissed it as womanly gossip.

   You look down at your program, not wanting to think any ill of a dead man no matter what others falsely spread about him.

   As you try to shake the thoughts from your mind it seems that the universe has other plans for you. You run almost head-first into another man from your carelessness.

   “Oh, pardon me,” you begin before you realize who you’re speaking to.

   His eyes were so red they could almost be mistaken for crimson. It’s evident that he’s been crying for days with the puffing around his cheeks, and he seems barely able to hold more tears from bursting out as he speaks to you. If he wasn’t on the verge of emotional breakdown, he would have been considered conventionally handsome. You wonder why he hasn’t married—you let your servants marry frequently if they keep their post.

   “My apologies,” says the Head Butler of the House of Phantomhive—a house dead and gone. “I was distracted. Please—“ He seems to want to say something else but falters.

   “Please sit,” a woman answers for him. She was clad in the garb of a maid, as she served her master in his life. She is not as fragile as her coworker, though you suspect she’s hiding tears behind those big glasses of hers. She puts her hand on his back to steady him. “Fill in the rows all the way, please.”

   “Of course,” you nod and follow her instructions. It seems that at least some of the rumors are true—those servants of Phantomhive’s are loyal enough to staff his own funeral rather than running off to find some other job.

   Mary nudges your ribs. “You heard how the Earl gave everything to his servants, right?” she asked in a hush. You can tell that she’s gotten this gossip from one of her less-respectable friends. “Nothing to his fiancée.”

   “Enough, Mary,” you say as you sit. The pews are as unforgiving as usual in their hard wood, and the Cathedral walls don’t do much to keep out the heat.

   You busy yourself with the view from your seat. You’re not too close or too far-back, which gives you an amazing view of the stained-glass windows that pour multicolored light onto the mourners. You can see the casket, but no true details.

   It’s open, and as expected the Earl of Phantomhive is inside of it with no breath stirring in him, and that’s all you can tell.

   You quickly find something that isn’t a dead body to stare at. Even from your seat you can tell the Earl was young—younger than you.

   Your eyes scan the crowd, desperate for a distraction.

   You stare at the portrait of Ciel being presented, the flowers around it, and the flowers that adorn the entire room. Flowers are positive, right?

   It strikes you that there are two people wearing white in the room. You squint to get a better look at them and know immediately that they aren’t of your country or of your continent. You rack your brain for who they could possibly be.

   Decked in white jewels, you can tell that one of a higher status than the other—ah! Yes, the Bengali Prince that Ciel had befriended. That was how the curry bun was launched.

   It only takes a look at this prince and his servant to know that this is much more than a business loss for them. The prince looks practically despondent as his servant attempts to soothe him with words. You wish you could hear what they were speaking about, and if anything could pull the royal from that dead, exhausted stare he wore.

   As your gaze wanders, you notice the church is near capacity. You thank God that you have gotten a seat with Mary—if she had been forced to stand the whole ceremony then you would have had to hold her up.

   She flips through the program next to you, thankfully satisfied.

   Suddenly, a hush runs through the church. You turn around to see the source of the commotion, and that is when _she_ appears.

   Elizabeth Midford, backed by her black-clad family, is truly the most beautiful you’ve ever seen her. She wears a veil of black that just barely hides her face, but her long, golden hair falls in curls around her shoulders that look too soft to be real.

   She is the perfect bride, the one that any man would surely kill for, and she has entered the church an unmarried woman even at her increasing age.

   The Phantomhive wedding was always put off for one reason or another. The couple made appearances in public that assured everyone that they were most definitely devoted to the idea of marriage and would never dream of advancing their relationship until they had rings on their fingers, but vague ‘business troubles’ always forestalled their nuptials.

   And now they would never marry.

   In Elizabeth’s hands are a bouquet of brilliant blue roses. She leaves her family at the end of the aisle and advances in her bridal march. The click of her low heels echoes and blends in with the Requiem that the organ plays.

   Women draw out their handkerchiefs to blot away their eyes and men try in vain to maintain traditional masculinity when she leans down over the corpse of her never-to-be husband and kisses his forehead, laying the blue roses across his chest.

   From there, the woman in black, almost a widow, descends down to the pews and joins the other mourners.

   At the reception there will be a hundred men descending on her for her hand in marriage, you suspect, and you’re not sure what half of the couple has a worse fate. The Midford family has always been sought after. You remember how well-respected ladies fought so dirtily for Edward’s hand.

   He and their parents sit down next to Elizabeth and she buries her face in Edward’s shoulder.

   With that, the ceremony begins.

   Priests, vicars, and all classes of holy men call the room to order. “Today, we are gathered here to celebrate the life and mourn the passing of The Earl Ciel Phantomhive.” They open with the Lord’s Prayer, so you close your eyes and whisper the words along with them.

   You have never been terribly religious, but you worry for the fate of the Phantomhive Earl, forced to grow up so young only to die so young. Beside you, Mary says her prayers with a little more fervor.

   “Today we look back on a life of great success and great tragedy. In this wake, we will have many who were closest to the Earl speak of his good deeds and accomplishments to ensure we never forget the source of them. The interment of the Earl into the Phantomhive mausoleum will be a private event, but here we open the floor for those who knew him to speak for him,” a priest with a round, fat nose says.

   Even at this early stage, there are people in the audience crying.

   The first to take the floor, surprisingly, is the prince you spotted earlier. His servant announces him and stands guard while he says his piece.

   “Ciel,” Prince Soma began. “Is my brother. No death, bloodline, or logic can change that. He _is_ my little brother. Not ‘was.’ So, I will fill my role as his older brother tonight, and tell a terribly embarrassing story about him.”

   The servants standing by Ciel’s casket nod solemnly. Perhaps this was what the prince did in his culture, even if it was unorthodox for a Christian wake. You try to be understanding.

   “I remember the week we spent together in Spain with dear Lady Elizabeth,” Soma recalled, his closed-off demeanor fading before your eyes. “We all went to a ball on our final evening there, and I can almost see his face now, glaring at Lizzie and me for dragging him out. You see, Ciel was a horrible, horrible dancer.”

   A nervous laugh went through the audience. That was what people always said about the Earl, but never to his face. It is a sweet thing to recall, though, and makes the man seem more human than superhuman son who could take over an empire at ten.

   “And he got on the dance floor,” Soma continues. “And he—he danced with Lizzie.” Soma begun to wipe at his eyes with the back of his hands. “And gods, it was so, so terrible. It was dreadful. It was like watching an elephant stomp through a tea shop.”

   Tears still glistened in the eyes of the attendees, no matter how happy the story seemed. The prince’s voice quickly declined in stability as well.

   “A Spanish dignitary approached me and asked if Ciel was prone to seizures,” Soma gets out before a little sob shakes his body. “Because they thought he was having some sort of medical emergency—oh, gods! Little brother!”

   The prince drops to the floor, tears coming in full force.

   “He was awful,” Soma wails as his teary-eyed servant dragged him away from the casket. “He was such an awful dancer!”

   Well. That had been… Interesting. Again, you give the prince the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps less… _Civilized_ nations value such things highly.

   At least it had been interesting. The stream of men who approach the podium after the prince is calmed are dreadfully boring.

   All of them praise Ciel’s wit, his intelligence, his business skills, and other arbitrary qualities. You start to miss the sound of the prince’s voice after a while.

   To break up the monotony, a group of his servants approach the podium next to the Earl’s casket.

   “I didn’t know how to read,” one says nervously, the paper in his hand shaking. His blue eyes look like they’ve been drowned in sorrow for weeks and the Earl has only been dead for a few days. “Before I came into the service of my young master. He taught me everything. He taught me so much… I wish I could have done something to protect him.”

   “He took me in when I had nothing,” another one says, and this one catches your eye. What was wrong with his skin? And, dear heaven, was that a snake wrapped around his neck? You watch in horror and fascination. Ciel really did take in freaks as if they were normal, you think to yourself. “He took me in without any real reason to, and he was the greatest man I ever knew… says Emily.”

   Who is Emily?

   “The young master was the greatest, yes he was,” the maid you ran into earlier continues. “He always treated us so well, even when we messed up. Young master, I really am sorry for all the times we messed up. I’m sorry for every plate I dropped.” Her voice fades to nothing, and it seems she isn’t so strong.

   The American then proceeds to speak. “It’s up to you now, Tanaka,” he says to the ceiling. You’re pretty sure that was some other servant of Ciel’s who had passed but with this strange menagerie of people, there’s no telling who Ciel was actually close to. “You watch after him, and make sure he’s getting enough rest. We’ll come join you soon, hm? We’ll all be together again.” A tear rolls down his cheek, and then more come.

   You have to admit that that one makes your chest tight.

   There’s no escape from feeling sad, it seems, as Mary takes your hand and squeezes it. She sees what you see—Elizabeth Midford standing up to speak.

   She looks like a doll, paint smeared from sorrow beneath her veil.

   “I will never,” she declares strongly even with her shaking body. “Ever see Ciel smile again. This… This alone could kill me.”

   The mourners breathe in collectively and hold that breath without even thinking about it. Seeing such a gorgeous woman upset stirs the protective, fatherly urges of the men in the audience. It is all very patriarchal.

   “But this isn’t much of a change from the norm. Ciel rarely smiled. He was a serious man, intent on preserving his name and legacy. All I hope is that you know how hard he worked for this—and how the stress of it may be what put my wonderful fiancé in his grave. He cared so greatly for his company, his servants… But when he did smile, it was like the sun shone on my face.

   “Everything felt warm and perfect for a moment, and if I could bottle up that feeling I would never know sorrow again. But I can’t bottle him up, or his moments. He’s lost to me. Lost to us.”

   Elizabeth lifts her veil and outstretches an arm to Sebastian Michaelis, urging him up from where he’d been quietly sobbing the entire ceremony amidst the floral arrangements.

   “Come here,” she beckons him. “Before we say a final prayer, I want to let everyone know who the cause of so many of those smiles was.”

   The black butler stands and clasps Elizabeth’s hand. He is still crying, but seems to be attempting to hold it back. “Lady Elizabeth,” he says and his voice is smooth molasses.

   “No, no, don’t argue with me right now. Not in front of Ciel. Come here. Good. I wanted to thank you for being by his side always,” she tells him.

   He shakes his head. His hair is matted and uncombed as if he’s been too depressed to even shower. “I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t…”

   People in the crowd are now crying openly, moved by the display of complete and utter loyalty. Nobles would kill for a butler like him.

   “Come here.” Elizabeth then does the unthinkable. She hugs a servant in the full view of every British noble worth their salt and does it proudly.

   Some gasp, some cry even harder. A part of your brain that has learned to navigate British opinions and appearances counts it as a very smart move that will surely dispel rumors of any animosity between the two over those quiet-but-vicious rumors involving Ciel and his butler. You curse yourself for being so analytical at a young man’s wake.

   The hug has a less than placating effect on Mr. Michaelis, however.

   He lets out an almost inhuman sob and collapses to the floor, slipping right out of Lady Elizabeth’s arms.

   “Come back,” he wails, gloved hand outstretched at the casket holding his master. “Come back! Please, young master, please… Don’t leave me here, don’t leave, please, come back… How am I to go on without you? What is a butler without his charge? Please, come back!”

   “Mr. Sebastian,” the maid from earlier cries out, and runs to him. She wraps her arms around him and tries to hold him steady, but someone of his stature isn’t easily tamed by such a short woman.

   The American, the one with the blue eyes, and the snake-man all rush to help her. They put their arms around the butler like a nest and net holding him down, keeping him from lunging into the coffin after the Earl.

   You get a very strong sense that you’ve invaded a private, personal moment and feel the urge to leave. There are beads at the corner of your eyes, and you harshly regret not knowing Ciel Phantomhive while he was alive if he could make people say such things upon his passing.

   You avert your eyes from the hysterical butler—and that winds up making you look right at the corpse again.

   Except something feels different this time. Nothing is actually different, of course—he’s dead. Ciel Phantomhive is dead and therefore cannot move.

   Still, the corners of his lips almost look upturned. You can see it clearly now even at your distance. It looks like one of the smiles Lady Elizabeth described in her eulogy. Had that been on Ciel’s face when he entered? No, no, it hadn’t been, something was so strange…

   A priest reigned the ceremony back in. He calls the room to prayer, and eventually the butler stops screaming.

   “We will now begin the processional viewing. Please say your final respects and filter out into the courtyard. I have been told that after this viewing, a reception will be held at the Phantomhive Manor. All are invited.”

   What happens next is a blur. You stand. Mary stands. Many other people around you stand. Why can’t you shake that strange, strange feeling?

   You walk. Mary walks. People around you are still crying and blowing their noses. Some are still praying. None of it feels real, though.

   It feels like you are walking through mist in a dream—a black mist that encircles all. You barely even get a chance to collect yourself when it is your turn in the line to look at Ciel up close and shake his almost-widow’s hand.

   You take a deep breath, you look down, and… The smile you saw earlier is gone. Back to neutral expression. Just a lifeless body of a man who was once loved by many.

   You don’t know why, but you feel as if you must run from the Cathedral at once. Damning all politeness and etiquette you make your goodbyes to the other mourners short and Mary is furious.

   She gives you the silent treatment the whole carriage ride home, but all you can focus on is the silhouette of the Cathedral fading in the distance. It looms ominously on the horizon, and its massive cross feels like an eye staring into you.

   You do not get any sleep that night, and blame it on the fact that Ciel was so young.

   You tell Mary to sleep, to not worry—that you are just sad for the passing of someone below your age. You cannot tell her what you think you saw.

XxxxX

   Lizzie closes the church doors behind her parents. She requested one final moment alone, without her parents or brother, with her dead fiancé. They obliged and left her to her grieving, not even noticing that the prince, his servant, and all of Ciel’s servants were still in the room.

   Lizzie locks the door, and lets out a sigh of relief.

   Sebastian, still on the floor with salty tear stains covering his jacket, lifts his head up to make sure the coast is clear. Agni nods to him to signal they are once again alone in the chapel.

   Then, comes a near inhuman laugh from Sebastian. It’s a short cackle that would disturb anyone in their right mind at a funeral, but the others in the room with him—Ciel’s inner circle—echo that laugh.

   Only when someone speaks do they stop.

   “Fuck all of you,” Ciel growls, sitting up in his coffin. “You said you’d keep it realistic!” He picks a stray flower petal out of his hair and lets it float to the ground.

   “That was realistic,” Sebastian defends with a wry smile. “I’d be ever-so broken up if you died.”

   “And did we have to pick the hottest day of the year? I was _baking_ in there,” Ciel goes on and wipes his brow. “Resisting the urge to laugh at all of your bad acting and the urge to dab myself dry was almost overwhelming.”

   “Hey! We’re great actors!” Soma retorts.

   It earns him an icy glare from Ciel. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your little eulogy. I told you never to speak of that evening!”

   Soma shrugs. “You were dead. What’s a promise to a dead man, eh? Oh, don’t be so cross, little brother. You’ve risen like that Jesus fellow you Englishmen are always on about.”

   Ciel’s eyes flash at the mention of the name. One pink with a contract symbol burnt onto it eternally in spite of a breaking of said contract, and the other crimson red.

   “Oh, come on, Ciel,” Lizzie scolds. “We made you look like a veritable saint when the reality is quite the opposite.” Demons could be so moody.

   “I’m just glad it’s over,” Ciel grumbles and opens the bottom half of his coffin so he can move his legs.

   Sebastian stands and offers his hand to Ciel so he can climb down from the coffin. Age and demonic conversion can’t cure shortness, after all. “Yes, yes, and you’ll never have to do it again.” Ciel accepts his hand without thinking and gets down before swatting Sebastian away.

   “I’m still cross with you,” Ciel informs him. “You threw yourself on the _ground_.”

   A low, throaty chuckle comes out of Sebastian that makes Ciel remember that he can never be cross with him for long. Ciel allows Sebastian’s arms to wrap around his waist, pulling him close.

   “Finny,” Sebastian says while his thumb traces the line of Ciel’s cheek. “Ready the carriage and make sure all the guests have gone.”

   “Yes, sir, Mr. Sebastian!” Finny’s footsteps echo as he sprints to perform his duty.

   “Didn’t you like the funeral I planned for you?” Sebastian asks of Ciel, face near a pout.

   “You say that as if it’s something everyone does for their significant other.”

   “Well, if we were humans, one of us would die first,” Sebastian points out and gives Ciel a quick peck on the lips. “You’d probably have to plan my funeral in that case. Oh, how awful that would be. You can’t even plan a picnic.”

   “I hate you,” says Ciel in a way that shows he doesn’t really.

   Lizzie clears her throat. “You two will have more than enough time to canoodle on the way to France,” she tells them. After all, where else would an Englishman go to lay low and never be found? On top of that, France is a destination many couples attend on a honeymoon.

   Ciel and Sebastian had a funeral instead of a wedding, but details, details.

   “You need to tell me how preparation goes on my funeral,” Lizzie says.

   “I’ve gotten all the flower arrangements planned,” Sebastian replies, momentarily tearing himself away from looking at Ciel. “And reservations on a boat to Africa. All you have to do is take out those contact lenses and stop breathing.” Beneath Lizzie’s current pair of contacts are huge, emerald Reaper eyes.

   After all, the boys couldn’t have all the fun. If Ciel got to escape a Victorian marriage then so did she—and the last thing she wanted was to deal with men coming after her again.

   No, she was to go to Africa. Hopefully meet a nice woman, hopefully start work as a Reaper in her assigned area.

   Soma throws his own arms around Agni’s waist, pleasantly surprising the taller man. “Well, you all can visit us any time!” Seeing how Soma plans on escaping a marriage in favor of his homosexual tendencies amused Ciel to no end.

   “And the Manor is always yours, no matter whose name is on the deed,” Bard reminds them.

   Ciel nods. They said goodbyes long ago, but he knows this is the last time he will see many of them for quite some time. “Thank you.”

   “Pleasure’s all ours,” Bard shrugs. “I did mean what I said up there.”

   “And so do I,” Mey-Rin adds.

   “And I… says Emily.”

   “And I really hope you are happy in France,” Lizzie goes on. “Because you deserve it. You’ve worked so hard and you’ve seen enough hardship. Promise me for the first year, at least, you won’t try to solve any murders.”

   “Lizzie—“

   “Promise!” Elizabeth outstretches her finger to indicate a pinky-promise like they used to do as children.

   Ciel untangles himself from Sebastian’s embrace and locks pinkies with her. “Promise.”

   “And promise you’ll write to all of us.”

   “I promise,” Ciel insists.

   “At least once a week!” Lizzie holds him by his pinkie.

   “Yes, yes, I promise!”

   “The carriage is ready and the guests are gone!” Finny announces, sprinting back towards the collection of people inside.

   “Good. Put the rocks in and lock the coffin,” Sebastian orders. “I’m thinking that my death will be that I slipped away into a deep melancholy after my ‘master’s death and died without a purpose in my life. Tell people that.”

   The servants agree and Ciel rolls his eyes.

   “Well, get on with it,” Ciel sighs.

   Sebastian doesn’t even need to ask Ciel what he means by that.

   In one swoop, he scoops up Ciel in his arms to carry him bridal-style. “You say that as if you don’t enjoy it,” Sebastian complains.

   Ciel kisses Sebastian’s cheek to shut him up.

   “Bon voyage!” Soma laughs, waving as the two walk back down the aisle to where their carriage awaits them on the other side. “And may your wedding bed be fruitful!”

   Ciel is able to throw back one last glare before the doors close behind him.


End file.
